


That Which is Best Served Cold

by alh1971



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Revenge fic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4684130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alh1971/pseuds/alh1971
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the Quiet Isle, Sandor has an unexpected visitor. One shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Which is Best Served Cold

Gravedigger  
When you dig my grave  
Could you make it shallow  
So that I can feel the rain?

~Dave Matthews~

AN: An AU merging of GoT and ASOIAF…

….

“Do I have to beg you?” the dying man gasped.

When her only answer was a vacant stare, he became more desperate. He had tried to enrage her, and now…gods help him, he was reduced to begging. What was she waiting for?

“Do it…do it,” he pled.

She continued to stoically watch him for several moments, but then, as she advanced towards him, his hope for a swift end was crushed as she dispassionately snatched his coin pouch.

His stark disappointment and anguish matched his physical agony as he continued screaming at her, long after her figure had disappeared, long after his throat was raw and voice a graveled and hoarse rasp, “Kill me, kill me, kill me…” 

And then, finally, mercifully, there was black…  
…  
…  
Moaning, he opened his eyes and struggled to focus. He could have sworn he saw the little she-wolf staring at him…And who was the robed man holding vigil? His eyelids fluttering shut, he let blackness overtake him again.  
…  
He knew immediately when opened his eyes that he was not dead, and that his fever had broken. The moonlight bathed the sparsely furnished room in pale light. He lay on a simple straw-stuffed pallet, though by the smell, it was clean. 

He was soon aware of the man in the room. It was the same man he had thought was a figment of a fevered dream.

“Who are you?” Sandor croaked.

The man smiled and approached him, kneeling by his head and offering him a water skin.

Sandor coughed as the man tittered, “Not so fast, lad. Small sips.” He tried again, and this time he was able to keep most of the fluid down. 

The man appraised him, his keen eyes looking through him. “Are you in pain?”

Sandor attempted to move his wounded leg and couldn’t suppress a groan.

The man nodded and reached into a pouch tied to his robe, pulling out a small vial. 

Sandor eyed him warily. “What the hells is that?”

The man smiled. “No need to fear, son. It’s milk of the poppy. The girl’s coin helped pay for it, so do right by her and take it. You will heal all the better for it.”

Sandor grasped his wrist as he brought the bottle to his lips. “The girl? The girl you said?”

The old man nodded.

“Where is she? I need to speak to her, I need to…,” he gasped as his head fell back on the bed, too weak to continue. Mouth slack, he allowed a few drops of the medicine to fall on his tongue, forcing him to swallow convulsively.

The man’s curious gaze sharpened. “I am afraid that is not possible, friend.”

Sandor coughed a harsh, “Why? What have you done with her?”

“Done? Nothing…she has simply left. Left in the dark of night, l’m afraid. May the Seven bless and protect her.”

Sandor turned his head so that the old man would not see the hot tears rolling down his face. 

…  
1 Year Later

The hunched and hooded crone walked slowly. 

Despite her seeming discomfort and wavering gait, her course was undeniable, leading her to the Quiet Isle’s lichyard.

Eyes narrowing, she paused for a moment behind a twisted tree, watching the hulking brother at his labor. Although he limped, his size and brute strength were obvious, given how his simple robe stretched across his massive shoulders. 

But was he truly the one she sought? 

She waited, continuing her patient scrutiny until at last she was rewarded: Ah, there it was! His hood had slipped down, revealing his face as he stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow with his forearm. 

The old woman let out a vindicated hiss as she beheld his scarred countenance. Yes, indeed, it was he. No one in the Seven kingdoms or beyond held such a visage… 

She continued her vigil until he resumed his efforts, shoveling some unfortunate’s final resting place. 

With his back turned and attention focused at his task, she felt confident to resume her trek up the hill. 

An impartial observer would have been surprised to note that the old woman’s gait had changed dramatically. Gone was the arthritic wobble, and in it’s place was a feline grace, quick and sure of foot.

She was several paces away before his back stiffened, and his grip on the shovel became defensive rather than utilitarian. Turning slowly, his demeanor relaxed as he beheld the crone.

Never having taken the vow of silence, he spoke. “What would you be needing, good woman?”

She stopped in her tracks, familiar with the gravelly voice, which belied his kind words. Pausing for a moment and once again adopting her drooped posture, she shrugged and pointed to the grave. 

Frowning for a moment, his eyes lit up in understanding. “Aye, this be one of the many final homes for the dead. Mayhap one of your kin?”

The crone grimaced and pointed again, insisting that his gaze follow her finger.

Puzzled, he turned to look, and that is when she struck. 

Quick as lightning, and capitalizing on his noted weakness, she aimed a powerful kick at his lame leg, causing him to fall heavily.

With the element of surprise, she knocked the air out of his lungs. She pounced on him, straddling his chest, holding a dagger seemingly conjured from the air at his throat.

He attempted to move but the sharp knife’s edge at his jugular stilled his efforts. A flicker of his old rage glinted in his eyes, which elicited a grim smile from her.

Whispering low to him, she ground out, “Do you know who I am?”

Gazing at her with narrowed eyes, he gave a barely perceptible shake to his head, wisely to avoid nicking his throat. 

She allowed a hollow laugh to escape her lips. Leaning forward to his good ear, she whispered, “Oh, but I think you do…Hound.”

His eyes widened as he watched her grab her face with her left hand, the right still firmly holding the blade. His eyes played tricks on him! No longer the old crone, he beheld the face of a dark-eyed girl, lean of face, and aged somewhat over the course of the past year, but it was she, undeniably. Arya Stark.

She laughed louder at his apparent shock.

“Come now, Hound. You didn’t think I crossed you off my list, did you, just because I saved your sorry hide once?"

He stared at her for some time, the only sound besides their harsh breathing the occasional caw of crows overhead. Gradually she could feel him relax and noted that his gaze now simply looked tired and resigned. 

She couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for the battered and scarred former warrior. Unbidden and unwelcome, thoughts of him sheltering her, keeping her safe and teaching her his rough but shrewd ways during their travels flashed through her head. If not for him, she would have been slain with her kin at the Red Wedding…Swallowing thickly, she felt a deep stab of remorse.

But that only served to anger her more. 

He watched the play of emotions across her face impassively, until he recognized the final look that took root in her eyes. In it he saw his death. One that she had previously denied him.

“Do it,” he breathed, a soft mockery of his former hoarse screams.

He felt the knife tremble at his throat as a tear rolled down her face. The girl was at war with herself, of that he was certain. But he felt at peace with his fate, and if his death would ease the girl’s suffering, well, he was ready to pay the price. He knew he had earned his death several times over in his lifetime. Strange that it would come here on the Quiet Isle at the hand of a girl and not in battle, as he had once thought…

She paused, grimacing as if in pain and brought the blade over her head in a two-handed grip. Time stood still as both held their breath.

Letting out a shrill cry, she fell over his body, driving the knife deep into the ground next to his head, choking out strangled sobs. 

Shocked and momentarily motionless, he blew out a great breath, wondering at the way the girl wrapped herself around his torso like a frightened child.  


Her sobs continued, unleashed, until finally, he began to awkwardly pat and rub her back while muttering soothing nothings to his would-be assassin.

“There, there little wolf, all is well, there’s no harm in this…” On and on he tried to calm her in his gruff way, until finally, with great hiccupping breaths, she pushed herself up with shaky arms and wiped her nose with her sleeve.

Staring at the great brute of a man, she realized the truth of Jaqen H’ghar’s words.

She did not hate the Hound. 

On the contrary, what she felt was…something else.

She gazed at him and smiled a hesitant, watery smile.

A great weight lifted off her shoulders when he smiled back.

.…  
…  
AN: I struggled with the amount of time lapsed from their last meeting, but chose 1 year for several reasons. Hope it makes sense in terms of the plot rationale.  
Thanks for reading.


End file.
